


Mistakes.

by MorbidFixation



Category: Blade (Movie Series)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 04:46:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12357771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorbidFixation/pseuds/MorbidFixation
Summary: Just an unbetad snippet I wrote at 3 am. . .





	Mistakes.

He can smell it, even before he enters. The door handle cool against his skin as he pushes it open, little resistance given, but then again. Its not like he'd notice.  
It tickles at his nose, begging just begging to be inhaled, to be devoured. 

Saliva pools thick against in swollen tongue, fangs itching against his gums. And in that moment he feels young again, newly turned, uncontrollable and hungry, skin tingling and head swimming.

He sniffs in agitation, brushing off the sensation swiftly, shouldering off his jacket. Daft fingers already working to roll up the sleeves, his gaze never leaving the sight before him. 

Seated there, upon the cold tile is a girl. A small thing, unkempt and fragile, dark hair piled messily atop her head, barely contained by the fraying hair tie. Her lips tinted blue, and her golden skin, ashen and dull, but even in the terrible florescent lights of the shitty little diner, he could tell she'd been something to look at. Hell, maybe she still was.   
She pulls in a shaky breath, managing a lazy blink, forcing herself to open then again.  
Her breathes shallow, and she's beginning to shake. 

Shock, frost knows.

She gazes up at him then, as if suddenly feeling his.presence. Her lips stumbling over themselves more than speaking, and she's gasping now.

And he can't help but take it all in, filling his lungs until he can't anymore. Inhaling the sweet scent of her spilt blood still lazily flowing with her every stilted breath.  
He squats down, resting on his hunches. His thumb running across his bottom lip as he assess her a moment. This close he can see how unfocused her eyes are, dark and hazy, and wet. He can see the tiny freckles, beneath her once growing skin, adorning the bridge of her nose and the swell of her full cheeks. He leans in, inhaling again, trying to ignore the way her little yelp makes his pants tighter, and he smells smoke, and gun powder and blood. 

Not hers, close, but different in a certain twang that makes his nose scrunch up, and underneath it all, he smells vanilla. Warm vanilla and spice, and he remembers home. The good old days, full of blood and mayhem, of fire and ham. Mugs full of spiced ale and the filthy things that followed. He'd remember those well later, he was sure.  
He scoffs, pulling him back, watching the way the girl relaxes.

It's so quiet now. Her breathes barely there, heartbeat like ripples in a pond. A soft echo, growing slower and softer as the tears begin to dry on her cheeks.  
And there, in her motionless hand, the razor.


End file.
